


Read To Me

by reyandbens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco reads to Hermione, F/M, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Head Boys & Head Girls, Living Together, Pining, Reading, Reading Aloud, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24156793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyandbens/pseuds/reyandbens
Summary: Hermione Granger is suspicious of the new Malfoy she now shares Heads' duties with. Draco just wants to impress the girl he can't seem to stop yearning for.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 256





	1. Chapter One

Hermione walked through the hallways in silence. She kept her eyes trailed to the floor, trying not to look too closely at the surrounding architecture. Coming back to Hogwarts for eighth year had been a difficult decision, especially considering that Harry and Ron would not be coming with her. Their celebrity and valiance had earned them a spot in the Auror program; with academia as the other choice, they enthusiastically accepted. It was not so easy for her—her education was her top priority, and she did not want short cuts due to her fleeting fame. Besides, her path was not so clear. Coming back to Hogwarts would buy her some much needed time.

As she walked the quiet halls, she was not as certain in her choice. At every corner, she would get flashes of the broken walls, the screams, the blood. Lupin, Tonks, Fred—their cold bodies just lying under the chaos. She tightly closed her eyes and shook her head in an attempt to will the thoughts out of her head. The nightmares would surely be worse now that she was back. She hoped seeing the rest of her friends would add some happier memories.

She finally reached the door to Headmaster McGonagall’s office. When she received her yearly owl informing her about the special eighth year, she was also informed she would be Head Girl. News that once would have filled her with excitement left… nothing. Just exhaustion at reconciling the changes she now saw within herself. She entered the office not even remembering this would be the meeting with the Head Boy, so when she saw the blonde head sitting across from McGonagall, she was more than shocked.

“Miss Granger! Come sit,” McGonagall greeted. She stood and gestured to the frozen Hermione to sit in the other empty. Hermione was still—all she could see was the slight smirk on Draco Malfoy’s face.

“Granger,” he said. He raised an eyebrow in anticipation of an outburst. He overestimated her—she no longer had the energy for petty fighting. War had shown her how trivial her previous childhood rivalries had been.

“Malfoy,” she curtly greeted him and willed herself to sit in the empty chair. McGonagall and Malfoy both seemed to be surprised at her lack of outburst. Malfoy looked at her in slight confusion before turning back to McGonagall. She took this as her cue to continue.

“As you both know, you are Heads this year. This means your coordination of Prefect duties along with any other large school event. We aim to keep spirits high this year, and I expect the both of you to lead by example.” McGonagall continued, “I know you both have… history,” Malfoy scoffed, Hermione stared at the ceiling in hopes that she would become any more invisible.

“So,” she emphasized, “I implore you to put all that in the past. We are trying to rebuild, and fractioning from the leaders of the student body will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” they both mumbled.

McGonagall sighed, “You’re free to go. Our first prefect meeting will be this evening.”

Hermione sprung out of her chair and quickly went down the stairs in order to avoid an awkward encounter with Malfoy. But when she felt a hand wrap around her elbow, she knew she wouldn’t be so lucky.

She yanked her arm out of his grasp and spun around with a scowl on her face, ready for a row. But when she saw his face, he was shockingly… contrite. Hermione took one step back out of instinct.

“Look,” he started. “I’m not here to start a fight. As much as it pains me, I just wanted to say… I came to say I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously, “Is this some kind of trick?”

He scratched the back of his neck, “Unfortunately not. Recent events have made those antics feel very juvenile. This is the last time we have to speak of this—after this conversation I won’t mention it again. But I was wrong. I had a lot of time to think… but I thought letting it lie wouldn’t do it justice.”

He looked at her, waiting for a response. When he received another suspicious once-over, he continued, “Now that that’s over, we can go back to normal. You can be the swotty know-it-all, and I’ll be the devilishly handsome underdog—”

Hermione scoffed, “Not bloody likely—”

“And that will be the end of it. That’s the last time you’ll hear those two little words, Granger. I hope it was fun,” Malfoy teased.

Hermione felt the ghost of a smile form on her face. She quickly caught herself and frowned again. _Who is this man and what has he done with Draco Malfoy?_

“I’m sure you’ll think of something that will prompt those words again. And I’ll never let you live it down,” Hermione said. She started down the hallway toward the common room and he quickly caught up.

“Right…” Draco replied. They both seemed at a loss at the cordial silence, so he said, “So you promise not to strangle me in your sleep?”

_Crap!_ Hermione thought, _I forgot that living together was a part of the deal._ She recovered quickly, “I can make no more comments without a lawyer present.”

They reached the Gryffindor common room, and Draco seemed to sense he was no longer welcome. “Well, see you tonight, Granger.”

Hermione stared at his back as he strolled along. She needed to speak with Ginny. Immediately.

\--

Draco Malfoy never quite understood Hermione Granger. When he couldn’t grasp a concept, he studied and read until his eyes hurt. He hated feeling bested. So, when Hermione Granger came into his life—a walking reminder of his fear of inferiority, stupidity—she made him want to bash his brains into the wall. He could just never seem to beat her. She was always one step out of his grasp. He even dreamt about it— _how Freudian_.

He resorted to getting to her the only way it hurt—verbal attacks. She and Potter and the Weasel were so _good_. So kind. He relished the way her face contorted in anger or embarrassment when he said something particularly nasty. The way Weasley would make a fool of himself defending her honor, only to embarrass them even more. It gave Draco a particular sense of calm. If he couldn’t beat her academically, he’d tear her down spiritually. It was the only way.

This plan worked fine until the crack of the slap she gave him in third year reverberated and turned his whole world view on its axis. The gall she had. At first, it upset him. Then, it impressed him. _Who knew she had that in her?_

His father’s ramblings about her dirty blood and how he was disgracing the family by letting her best him resonated less and less. And then the Yule Ball… _the night speaks for itself_. He kept up appearances of course, but there was never really much emotion behind any of it. Only when he could not sleep, when his mind escaped his grasp and displayed images of her across his eyelids could he begrudgingly admit that in another world they could have probably been _friends_. In the mornings he tried to ignore these embarrassing thoughts by ignoring her all together. A dream he had one night changed him even further, much to his chagrin.

It was the same dream he’d had since he met her. It was dark, damp. He could barely see her, but he was sprinting behind her, calling her name, “Granger! Granger!” He would run and run until he tired himself out and collapsed. But this time he did not tire first. She slowed down. He grabbed her arm to spin her around. She slapped him, clawed at him, screamed for help. He was holding her down in an attempt to cool her off, shouting “I’m not going to hurt you!”

But then the dream shifted. The dark, grey dampness turned into a soft golden glow. He looked down to a squirming Hermione to see her face no longer contorted in anger but in pleasure. Her eyes were rolling back as she shifted to get friction. He could hear her whimpers, her moans, his name, “Draco, Draco, Draco.” Just as he accepted the sharp shift and moved to connect his lips with hers, her body evaporated, and he was left back on that dank, grey street.

He awoke that night with a gasp to find his own spend in his boxers. _Shit_.

From then on, he avoided her like the plague. Sixth year made this easy, as he was so caught up in the stress of his assignment and the possibility of failure ending in the death of himself and his family destroyed his sex drive. The best way to cope was to not think at all. 

This became difficult the day the Golden Trio ended up at Malfoy Manner. Potter, Granger, Weasley—all right there. The moment he’d been trained for since the Death Eaters overtook his home. They all looked at him expectantly but he just… couldn’t. He wanted to best Potter, to get a rise out of Granger— not have them killed. Schoolyard bullying was a far cry from this. It was cowardly, but he said nothing in hopes that they’d find a way out like they always did.

But then Aunt Bella kept Hermione in the room with her. He couldn’t take the sounds of her cries, her pleas. Draco stormed out of the room and paced in the same spot; he clenched his fists in case he did something foolish. He imagined her there, writhing in her own blood and fading from consciousness because of the pain. Bile rose in his throat. But then—the commotion stopped.

As much he hated to admit it in a normal circumstance, he was so relieved to see Potter save the day. Though he didn’t think it possible, he caved in on himself even more than he had in seventh year. The nightmares got worse. Hermione getting tortured at his own hand, killed at his own hand, killed by Voldemort as he looked on. To avoid them he rarely slept at all. Her screams and cries echoed through his head like a constant siren signaling “Hey asshole! You’re on the wrong team!”

When the war finally ended, Potter vouched for Draco and his mother due to their part in saving his life. Draco did not think his cowardly actions warranted such a heartfelt deposition, but Potter was adamant. As they stood awkwardly in the hallway of the ministry the day of the trial, Draco tried to tell him this.

“You didn’t have to do that, Potter. I’m the farthest thing from a hero.”

Potter looked at him. He gave Draco a once over and sighed, “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Draco scoffed, “Then why would I say it?”

Potter removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, “I said what I did because it’s the truth. Maybe you did not do it for heroics. But you did not just give us right up! You could have handed us into the hands of Voldemort and that would have been the end of it.” He stepped closer and continued, “You could have killed Dumbledore but you didn’t. I still think you’re a git, but you’re a git that got dealt a shit hand. I guess I just thought… I thought maybe you needed a chance to be dealt a new one.”

Draco looked at him long and hard. He had nothing to say to that, so he said, “You’re not gonna kiss me, right Potter?”

Potter laughed—really laughed—and said, “Shut up, Malfoy.”

Potter saw Narcissa walking back from the lavatory down the hall and took that as his cue to leave, but Draco grabbed his shoulder. He stuck out his hand—not missing the irony—and said, “Thank you, Potter.”

Potter smiled, grabbed his hand and shook it, and said, “That’s more like it.”

He spent the summer with his mother. She couldn’t handle living at the Manor—all the atrocities committed there caused her incredible pain. Draco did not hesitate to book a plane ticket to Italy and rent out a luscious Villa.

They were sitting at breakfast, the birds chirping, the sun hitting the window at just the perfect angle, and Draco thought this was the closest he’d ever get to heaven. But the war still plagued him. And Narcissa knew all too well.

“Darling,” she started, “look what came by owl today.”

She passed him the very familiar envelope. He sneered outwardly, but inwardly his chest swelled with hope. “What would I want with that?”

Narcissa sighed, “I know what you’re doing, Draco—it’s not going to work. Whether you like it or not, you love Hogwarts. And your previous year was… plagued with hardship. This is your chance to leave the school with happy memories.”

Draco saw the sincerity in her eyes and dropped the façade, “But who will take care of you?”

She smiled, “I can take care of myself, Draco. I’ve managed thus far; what’s one more year knowing my son is where he’s meant to be?”

He looked into her eyes, smiled, and looked back down at the paper he was reading. Lucius had been charged with numerous crimes, murder being at the very top of the list. _Good_ , thought Draco, _it’s what the prick deserves after putting Mother through the ringer_. He’d be in Azkaban for the rest of Draco’s life. He loved his father, it was painful knowing he would never be free again, but Draco wasn’t an idiot. Lucius knew exactly what he was doing and deserved to pay the price. But now his mother was all alone. He knew she would be cross if he did not accept the offer to come back for eighth year, but he hated having to leave her.

That was until she said she would live at the Villa with their maid Chiara—a kind Italian woman, around the same age as Narcissa herself—until she figured out what to do with the Manor. Feeling that she’d at least be in a place giving her peace, he felt less guilty about accepting the offer to return to Hogwarts for eighth year.

Not until he boarded the Hogwarts Express and looked out the window in a state of boredom did he remember Hermione. Well, that’s not exactly true. The calm days spent in Italy were the perfect catalyst for contemplation. He thought of her hair, her face scrunched when she was cross. He thought about what she’d say if she ever saw him again—he imagined this scenario including numerous expletives. Only deep in the night did his thoughts become less innocent: the flush of her cheeks as she writhed underneath him, the faint whisper of his name—his _first_ name—on her lips as she came.

As much as he hated to admit it, he welcomed these thoughts. They chased away the nightmares. Medicinal, almost. This delusion was sound until he was handed a copy of the day’s Daily Prophet with her face splayed across the front page. Seeing Hermione’s face, and not just a face he concocted from years-old memories, was a breath of fresh air. He scanned every detail— dark circles under her eyes, frizzy hair maintained in a simple braid, a frown stuck onto her once bright face. She looked, frankly, miserable. But the joy of seeing her again blinded him to her flaws; he thought she looked absolutely beautiful.

_She was coming back!_ He would see her again, in person. What would she say to him? Probably nothing, of course, but his mind raced anyway. Even if it was mean—which he deserved anyway—he would not care. Just as long as she’d look at him, acknowledge his existence. The suffering of his yearning would no longer be his alone to bear. But his elation soured as he read the subsequent article.

_GOLDEN TRIO SEPARATED AS HOGWARTS TERM BEGINS_

_By: Rita Skeeter_

_The Golden Trio are a trio no longer! As my readers surely know, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, two out of the three heroes of the Second Wizarding War have opted not to return to Hogwarts. They will instead head to the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic; just the facelift the program needed! Our third hero, Hermione Granger, will instead opt to return to Hogwarts for a new eighth year in order to make up for the misfortunes of the seventh. My sources tell me she has the position of Head Girl—a perfect fit! But how will Miss Granger and her beau Ron Weasley make the distance work? Only time will tell!_

He deflated instantly. _Weasley_. How could he have forgotten about Weasley? The stress of the war had lifted and his slowly raising spirits had given him tunnel vision of Hermione. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and threw the now crumpled paper across the compartment. No longer were his thoughts filled with fictional scenarios of himself and Hermione—they were filled with the ginger git and Hermione. His anger had risen to a fever pitch. Draco was glad of his poor reputation which made him effectively a pariah—no one was around to be the target of his wrath. He had vowed before coming back to turn a new leaf, to leave behind the bitter malcontent he once was. But this was a rough start. He willed himself to relax, to see the big picture. _Of course she’s with Weasley, you tosser. Who was the one who actually treated her well all these years? This is penance for your bad behavior._ He wished his conscience would shut it—because he knew it was right. Hermione owed him nothing. Now that he finally saw with clarity what he was missing, he only wished he could atone for his mistakes.

He brooded in the silence of his empty compartment until his eyes landed on the crumpled paper. The scowl on his face softened when he smoothed out the wrinkles on the page and looked at the photo of Hermione again. He wouldn’t be deterred. So what if she’s with Weasley? He could handle being friends with her. That’s how this whole _fixation_ began, anyway. Or enemies even. Anything he could get, really. The article said she’d be head girl, did it not? McGonagall had sent him a personal letter asking him to take the position of Head Boy after he decided to come back; Draco suspected this was meant to be good PR. At first, he just took the position at the encouragement of his mother; now, it served a strategic purpose. They’d be living together. His heart just pounded at the thought. He would be friends with her, damnit. He was sure of it. For his sanity’s sake, he _had_ to be sure of it.


	2. Chapter Two

“So he just…” Ginny paused, “apologized?”

Hermione sighed, “Apparently. It was strange, I felt like I was in _The Twilight Zone_.”

“The what?” Ginny asked.

“Not important,” Hermione said. “What _is_ important is that I will now have to live and work with Draco Malfoy… a surprisingly charming Draco Malfoy.”

Since their interaction, Hermione had racked her brain about everything he said. As much as she hated to admit it, he seemed sincere—a word she would never have attributed to Malfoy before. He said he was sorry. He was _funny_. She could not seem to shake the feeling that this was all some sort of ruse. The Malfoy in her head—the villainous, brainwashed ferret—was much more comforting than this new form. Hermione hated losing control, something she’s had to confront after the casualties war. But she did not anticipate that yet another catalyst for her introspection would be _Malfoy_.

Ginny smiled a strained smile and grabbed Hermione’s hand. “I don’t think any of us came out of that war the same. Not even you, ‘Mione. I never thought these words would ever come out of my mouth, but maybe you should give Malf—” she gagged mid-name, “Draco bloody Malfoy a chance.”

Hermione patted Ginny’s hand and looked out the window of the alcove at the misty mountains of Scotland. Her mind raced with the possibilities of her potential actions. She could berate him in the fashion of their previous years ( _No… that wouldn’t do. If he can be mature enough to move past it, why can’t I?_ ), she could spy on him in order to find his true intentions (She had a laugh at the thought, _I’ve spent too much time with Harry_ ). In truth, she had no real choice but to be civil… she no longer had the energy for the intrigue of their past Hogwarts adventures. She was just so tired.

Hermione released the breath she was holding and looked into the eyes of her patient friend, “When did you get so wise?”

Ginny laughed, “Don’t give me too much credit. Harry told me about his brief interaction with Malfoy at his trial. He described him similarly to the way you just have. At first I thought it was some kind of act, to get sympathy or something? But now that he’s kept up the same…positive attitude, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Why didn’t Harry tell us?” Hermione asked, eyebrow furrowed. _Seems like a somewhat important detail… childhood enemy has a change of heart_.

“I suspect he wasn’t sure what to make of it himself,” Ginny explained. She spoke slowly, almost as if she was working it out in her head just before the next word came out. “He didn’t want to embarrass himself by forgiving the guy after one silly conversation. At least now I can tell him his instincts were right… he’ll be annoyingly happy to know it.”

Hermione understood Harry’s reasoning, and strangely did not find herself to be cross. She scoffed, “God, we really have changed, haven’t we?”

Ginny laughed, “Already lamenting getting old at the ripe age of eighteen. I expected nothing less from you.”

\--

Hermione walked to the prefect meeting nervously. She spent the afternoon in the Gryffindor common room with Ginny—she wasn’t sure she was ready to face Malfoy yet. Avoiding him was probably a mistake, since she’d see him at the meeting and during their shift later that evening. Not matter what revelations she and Ginny made, she could not seem to shake old habits. _The less I see of him, the better._

The second those thoughts passed through her mind, she walked into meeting to see an indifferent Malfoy leaned against a desk at the front of the room next to Professor McGonagall. She saw his eyes widen slightly at the sight of her coming closer, but he quickly recovered and went back to staring blankly at the chattering students filling the desks.

“Ah! Miss Granger, perfect timing,” McGonagall said. She raised her voice slightly, “Lets begin…”

Hermione tuned her out. She knew she should probably listen, but she already knew the duties of the prefects. She allowed her mind to wander…

Meanwhile, Draco was desperately focusing on looking anywhere but at Hermione. Their interaction in the corridor had been… tense… but he didn’t mind. Seeing the fire in her eyes as she spun around to look him in the eye was simply captivating. It was pathetic, he knew—but she had been a disease on his mind for ages, and he was frankly too far gone to stop it. He welcomed the vitriol, as it was better than nothing at all. Then, something curious happened—they were almost… cordial? He knew she was suspicious of him, and he was surprised at her lack of fire. She had always had a good handle on it at school, ignoring his taunts and encouraging (to no avail) Potter and Weasley to ignore it. But this felt different. Hermione seemed… worn down. He knew all too well the seemingly eternal exhaustion the war caused him. _If only I could make her see… that we aren’t so different…_

Draco was willing to try, but his planned efforts seemed futile. Her (justified) reservations of him were perhaps too great an obstacle to overcome. He still hoped he could manage to pull himself together in order to somehow present himself in a new light; but first he had to play the part. Cold, uncaring, suspicious, constantly bored. He couldn’t let slip that he was a lunatic who fixated on her in any fantasy or scenario he could cook up in his corrupted head. So far, he felt that he was nailing it: just friendly enough to show a change, but not too friendly as to prompt her to hex his balls off. _If only Hogwarts had a drama programme… I would make a great Romeo…_ He frowned _… or Hamlet._

McGonagall’s proclamation took Draco out of his thoughts, “Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger will make the rounds this evening, but I implore you all to check your schedules, as any missed patrol will cause disciplinary action. You are dismissed.”

_Damn, I should have payed attention_ , he thought _. What the hell are we going to talk about for an hour?_

He looked over to Hermione and their eyes met before they both could stop it—and then they both immediately broke the contact by looking at anything but each other. _We have a long way to go, indeed,_ he thought.

\--

“So…” Draco started awkwardly, “how was your summer?”

They’d started walking passed the Great Hall and up towards the library in incredibly tense silence. Hermione would have liked him to say nothing at all. She scoffed, “Malfoy, you really don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be… nice!” she said, gesturing wildly with her hands. “It’s freaking me out.”

He just smirked and stayed silent.

She shouldn’t have engaged—she really shouldn’t have. But the curiosity got the best of her: “…what?”

“Oh… nothing,” he said, feigning disinterest. But then his annoyance got the better of him, “You know what? Fuck it. I can’t win with you!”

“Me?” she laughed derisively. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I was an asshole—I can admit that. An evil bastard, really. Which you and your little friends _clearly_ didn’t like—”

“And why _would_ we!”

“That’s exactly my point!” he began raving like a lunatic. A faint voice in the back of his head was nervously whispering _you’re blowing it_ , but he didn’t care—he hadn’t allowed himself to release this much pent up emotion in… well, _ever_. “I was a brainwashed dickhead, which no one—not even me—liked being! Now, I try to lighten up, act like a _human being_. I try to do some critical thinking and to find the error of my ways. And then I get shit for it! So, circling back to my original point: I can’t win with you!”

He had unknowingly cornered her into the wall and was uncomfortably close. The second he released a breath he looked into her eyes in horror: _yes, I really fucking blew it. She surely thinks I’m an insane person!_

Hermione was looking up at him in amusement. She probably would have been afraid, had it not been Malfoy, had they not been at Hogwarts, had she not seen the horrors of war. _No one_ talked to her like that after the war. She was (allegedly) a hero! Everyone treated her like a princess—not to be rattled or touched or bothered. Finally, someone who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind to her quite… animatedly. If anything, his rash actions had alleviated some of her qualms about this _new_ Malfoy. He seemed a little unhinged, but she began thinking that being… acquaintances with him maybe wouldn’t be so bad. If anything, the prospect excited her. Who knew the bored, stoic Malfoy could be so… raw? Her heart pounded at the proximity, and as gross approximation of an olive branch, she said, “You got tan,” and continued down their path.

He watched her moving figure for a moment, mouth gaping like a fish, until he shook away his surprise and tried to regain his composure. He replied, “Yes. I’m a regular Alain Delon.”

This gave her pause, and she slowed her pace to look at him oddly, “You know who Alain Delon is—the _muggle_ actor?”

He chuckled, “Mother and I spent the summer in Italy. Our maid had quite the crush—she made us watch the VHS tapes of his movies throughout our stay. Life felt straight out of _La Piscine_ then.”

She quirked an eyebrow, and said, “My mum had the same fixation—one that was then passed on to me.”

Draco smiled, “Can’t blame you, he’s a handsome bloke.”

Hermione figured her eyebrows had almost reached her hairline at this point. She said, “Would not have expected those words to come out of your mouth.”

Draco laughed, “C’mon! It’s not like I watched hours and hours of his movies against my will. I’ll have you know I’m very secure—and full of surprises.”

They walked back to their shared room and opened the door to find Hermione’s luggage set in the middle of the living room. Draco walked behind her and said, “You didn’t show. I took the room to the right there, if you don’t mind.”

“No, no it’s alright,” she said distractedly, still taking in their large space. There was a small living room with a roaring fire place, and her bedroom was on the other side of the space, near the large window protecting them from the rain outside.

“Well…” he said “goodnight, Granger.”

She smiled and said, “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

\--

The next week passed without incident. They would be cordial to each other during prefect meetings and classes. They had to be—being unprecedented, the eighth year class was so small. Even living together was not as nightmarish as she assumed it would be. Hermione rarely saw Malfoy. He seemed to enjoy solitude. This thought always put a frown on her face. Did he like it, or was it all he’d known? Though his poor attitude brought it upon himself, Crabbe and Goyle were sycophants—not friends. Who else did he have? Blaise? Pansy? Hermione nearly gagged at the thought. If those were her only choices for friends, she’d choose solitude too.

She decided to try and slowly make moves to be more friendly—his efforts to make amends had been pretty one sided. Maybe… invite him to sit with her to eat? Or to go to Hogsmeade? She almost laughed. _God, I’m pathetic. Coming up with ways to befriend Draco Malfoy, of all people. He’d laugh right in my face!_

However, just as she’d planned to make more of an effort, she became very swamped with her own schoolwork and plans for the future. She had owls coming in daily with prospects for future employment. She had to apprehend two teenagers nearly fornicating in the hallway after hours. She had owls from Harry and Ron asking her for all the fun details of Hogwarts and telling her of their Auror adventures: _Do you miss us like crazy? Are you still spending every waking hour in the library? They’re training us with loads of crazy scenarios! Nothing we haven’t seen—but now we don’t have your brains to help us!_

She knew everyone was trying to be thoughtful—horny teenagers excluded—but by Friday she was beginning to lose hair. Her brain was so numb, she could barely think. She just wanted to decompress in her room with a book and some tea and pretend nothing else mattered.

Hermione headed back to her dormitory and entered the room quietly to see Draco draped over the couch. She was surprised—he never left his room. _He probably thought I wouldn’t be back for a while_. His head rested on one arm of the couch with his legs thrown over the other. The glow from the fireplace lit his white hair with a soft glow and highlighted the pages of the book grasped in his hand. He hadn’t even looked over to her. Though she was tired, she didn’t see the harm in bothering Malfoy for a moment. Maybe he’d pull her out of her slump. _Or put you into another one_ , the rational voice in her head said.

She ignored the voice and asked, “What are you reading?”

He immediately jumped, “Merlin, Granger! Are you trying to kill me?” He held his hand over his heart, and she caught a glimpse of the title. _Dubliners—a muggle novel?_

“You’re reading Joyce?”

He almost appeared bashful before immediately putting back on a mask of stoicism. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing—I just didn’t expect you to be reading a muggle author is all.” Hermione continued, “You know, considering…”

Draco’s face contorted in annoyance, “I don’t know how else to get this through your head—the only one still holding onto that bullshit is you.”

Hermione threw her hands up in self-defense. “Alright, I’m sorry.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I really am! Old habits die hard. What story are you on?”

“Before I was so rudely interrupted?” Draco asked. “’The Dead.’”

Hermione gasped in spite of herself as she plopped down onto a chair adjacent to the couch, “That’s the best one! The ending is so—”

“Don’t tell me!” Draco interrupted in a panic, “I haven’t finished.”

“Sorry, got a little excited,” Hermione said. She awkwardly clicked her tongue and glanced around the room as Draco stared at her like she had a third head.

“Will that be all, Granger?” He asked hesitantly.

She had a gut feeling that she had overstayed her welcome. Maybe it was their recent civility, or her loneliness, but instead of leaving, she asked, “Would you read to me?”

Draco glanced up from the closed book into her eyes with a look of pure incredulity. He chortled, “What?”

She was embarrassed but doubled down. “Read to me.”

He was looking intently at her face, waiting for the joke—the punchline. When none came, he asked, “Why would I do that?”

Hermione sighed, “I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve had a long day, and that’s one of my favorite pieces of writing. You’ll be reading it anyway.” She rested her head on the back of the seat, “could you just… could you just…”

“Relax, Granger,” he said, still eyeing her strangely. “If it means that much to you.”

She relaxed into her seat and pulled her legs to her chest and listened at his fingers flipped through the pages. He started in, “ _His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling._ ”

He paused, and Hermione saw the pain that was displayed across his features. Draco clearly saw himself in Gabriel, and she began to feel as though she was intruding on an incredibly private moment. But to see him so open, so vulnerable—she couldn’t turn away. What was worse was the deep rasp of his voice, the quiet introspection and care he took with each word—it was heating her cheeks. She realized she had tuned him out and was staring, so she quickly looked down to fidget with her hands as he continued, “ _…snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves_.”

This was a mistake. The timbre of his voice and the look of pure wonder on his face were sending butterflies straight down to the pit of her stomach. _Can he tell that I’m staring? Christ, Hermione, pull it together!_ She had never seen him this way. Well, that wasn’t completely true. She knew he was fit—she’d been around enough girls in their year to know that was the general consensus. She knew he was intelligent; he was Head Boy for Christ’s sake. But his prejudices and nastiness had always soured her image of him. An image that was now blossoming without anything holding it back. His lean but muscular physique, his fingers always donning rings, his sharp facial features. She thought about how his sarcasm would make her laugh and how their disagreements would drive her up a wall and how he burst at her that day in the corridor—the raw emotion on his face, his breath on her cheek, his chest dangerously close as it rose and fell. She wondered what he would feel like pressed up against her even closer. An unmentionable part of her body was heating up and she knew one terrifying fact—she was a goner.

Luckily, Draco seemed to be in a world of Joyce’s creation. He continued reading as if he were the last man on earth. “ _It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead._ ”

Draco placing the book softly onto the table took her out of her trance. She quickly jumped up and avoided looking into the very surprised and confused face of Draco Malfoy. Instead she fixed her eyes on the burning fireplace and quietly said, “That was beautiful, Draco.”

Before he could open his mouth to respond, or even react to the use of his first name, Hermione rushed to her bedroom and slammed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I'm thinking one more chapter after this :)


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione paced around her room. _This cannot possibly be happening to me! Hermione, get a grip!_ She just needed to think. It was completely rational—it was only human anatomy. They live together, they’ve grown to respect each other, she’s a girl and he’s a boy… a really fit boy with a tragic past and shiny blond hair she’d like to yank on when—

She jumped as she heard a knock on the door, “Granger?” Draco said apprehensively. “You alright in there?”

She mustered as normal a voice as she could and said, “Yes, just not feeling well is all! Must’ve been something I ate…”

Hermione cringed at the weak response and Draco responded, “Oh… right. Uhm… feel better.”

He sounded unconvinced but she released a sigh of relief as he walked away. She began concocting a plan with only one strategy: keep as far away from him as possible. She was afraid what she’d do if she didn’t…

As she lied awake in bed, with Crookshanks nuzzling under her arm, she willed herself to think of Harry and Ron. _What would they say? They would kill me if they knew where my thoughts were heading!_ But as she imagined the looks of anger and betrayal on their faces… she would never admit that they morphed into the face of a smirking blonde. She then tried to imagine the horrible thing’s he’d said to them over the years… _which he apologized for_. The contradictions of the man invading her thoughts bombarded her mind for most of the night. Hermione tossed and turned and hoped that it was just a fluke… that once she saw him again it would go away…

This mantra proved to be a complete failure. She was up unusually early, so she made a cup of coffee and sat somberly in the living room, only half paying attention to the book in her lap. She jolted as she heard the door swing open, not expecting Draco to be awake—and not expecting him to be in a sweaty grey shirt and sweatpants. He was dimly backlit by the candlelight from the hallway, and she could see… a lot. As she gave him a once over, she couldn’t stop the blush that spread across her face.

“Shit!” Draco exclaimed as he saw her slight body cuddled into the couch. “You’re usually not up this early… I didn’t realize…”

He seemed quite taken aback, so on instinct she tried to play it cool to lighten the mood. She could feel herself treading in dangerous waters again, as a panicked voice inside her head screamed _But you’re not cool! You’re not cool!_

“Got caught in a rainstorm?” she asked, hoping her colorless pallor from her nerves and lack of sleep didn’t make her look utterly insane. She was relieved that he didn’t bring up the previous evening, but the nervous energy remained despite her “cool” façade.

“Unfortunately not…” he smiled. “A six kilometre run more like.”

“Vanity getting the better of you?”

“More like stress,” he said as he observed her pale face and dark circles, “but I don’t need to tell you that.”

She smiled. Was he… worried about her? _Stop it! Stop setting the bar so low—he was just making an observation!_ She refocused and said, “Just couldn’t sleep. Was working through something in my head.”

He scoffed, “What else is new? Potter sending you on another treasure hunt?”

She bristled, “Harry’s an auror now. He doesn’t need me to do anything for him.”

When she said it, she was surprised at her own resentment. It was meant to school Draco, but it was actually the first time she’d really said it out loud. Harry and Ron didn’t need her anymore. She always thought she’d be relieved when their crazy adventures finally came to an end and they could live in peace. But the peace they fought so hard for was surprisingly… boring. Nothing ever happened. Or, it hadn’t until a certain blonde someone started invading her thoughts. This feeling of abandonment must have been piled under all of her other issues, but it had now shoved its way to the front of the queue. Abandonment and forbidden infatuation. She really needed to find a therapist. She sighed, and realized that she had missed what Draco said and that he was now waving his hands in front of her glossy eyes.

“Earth to Granger!” he quipped. “Merlin, pretty tough problem, eh?”

She mumbled, “You have no idea.”

“What I was saying was,” he continued, “you don’t seem too keen on that.”

“On what?”

“On Potter leaving the nest. On him not needing you anymore,” he said. “And I may get in trouble for saying this, but you look positively forlorn.”

_You look bloody edible_ , she thought.

“What did you say?” Draco asked, eyes wide.

_Jesus! Am I really that sleep deprived that I didn’t realize I said that_ out loud _?_ She scrambled, “Uh… I was just saying… that you’re a real Dr. Melfi! Ah, yes, I’ve been looking for a shrink…”

The silence was unbearable. Draco was standing completely still, looking at her face—studying it for any tell of her wild behavior. He suddenly walked over to her and she shrunk back at his sudden movement. Then, he did something that shocked—and excited—her to her core. He put one hand on the back of her head and placed the other on her forehead, seemingly checking for a fever. Draco was so close… he’d never been this close before… never dared to touch her. She should have been furious—she should have pulled away… but she gazed up to look at his residually sweaty face and couldn’t think of any other place in the world she’d rather be. He was gazing back at her with the same awe, and asked, “You feeling okay?”

“Mhm,” she said quietly, still memorizing his face, relishing in his proximity.

“I just have one question…” he started, moving his hand away from her forehead while the other still held the back of her head.

“Yes?” she asked timidly.

“Who’s Dr. Melfi?” he asked.

\--

As Draco walked away from the living room in utter shock. The past 12 hours had been replaying in his mind like a film loop. _Hermione’s head resting on the back of the couch. The look in her eyes as he read to her. His name from her lips._ As he stood under the water of the shower, he couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. _Could she… could she_ really _?_

But as he glanced down to the marking on his left arm, reality came thundering towards him. The butterflies in his stomach dropped to an uncomfortable level. It was delusional to project his feelings onto her. He thought that she had said… but he could have been mistaken. She doesn’t _like_ him _._ How could she? He tormented her for ages. He fought for Voldemort for Merlin’s sake. And that wasn’t even scratching the surface of the Weasley situation. Was he even in the picture at all? For most of the year, she hadn’t really seemed to give the impression of a woman in love. The fact that he didn’t know—that he wasn’t close enough with her to be privy to really anything about her—infuriated him. Then he seethed for a moment more, and as the anger faded, sadness remained. It was hard for him to face the fact that this was a hell of his own creation. He _chose_ to side with Voldemort, he _chose_ to bully her relentlessly. If only he’d had the courage to admit he knew what he was doing was wrong, he may have been able to go back to the beautiful girl in his living room and snog her senseless—prove to her the man he could really be.

As he dried off, he reminded himself to be reasonable. That he knew this was how it would be. That he couldn’t let the fluke of that morning and the night before cloud his better judgment. That he needed to be patient and be there for her when— _or if_ —she wanted him.

While the rational side of his brain was returning, the initial euphoria he felt when he thought about her from that morning slowly returned. He’d gone out for a run; the isolation and longing were getting to his head. But when he returned to find a sleepy, blushing Hermione on the couch, he could have fainted. He was used to rarely seeing her and scolding himself for thinking of her so often. When the rare moments of alone time with her came, he was always in awe that it was happening. Getting over his initial shock, he began to be a bit worried. She seemed… barely there. Distracted. He longed to ask her to tell him— _really_ tell him. His body moved before he could even think. He touched her. She didn’t pull away. He shivered as he remembered her big brown eyes looking up at him in anticipation. Even though he fucked it up by asking her that stupid question, in that moment, he could have died a happy man. 

Surely, she didn’t lo—like him the way he liked her, but being connected with her still gave him hope, despite Weasley and their fucked up past. _I guess I have to figure out what_ The Sopranos _is, now._

\--

The second he walked into his room, Hermione jumped off the couch and walked as fast as she could to Gryffindor Tower.

When Ginny opened her door, her eyes quickly widened taking in the state of Hermione. “Merlin! Are you alright, Hermione?”

Hermione smiled guiltily and said, “Not really…”

Ginny immediately took action; she shooed out her roommates and grabbed Hermione’s hand and tenderly led her to the bed.

“So…” Ginny started, “you look like hell. What is going on?”

Hermione sighed, “You’re gonna hate me.”

“Seriously?” Ginny scoffed, “I don’t think anything can be worse than an overlord trying to kill us and take over the world. So, would just cut the shit and spit it out already? The anticipation is killing me!”

Hermione followed her instructions and quickly mumbled, “IthinkIlikeDracoMalfoy.”

Ginny seemed bewildered and leaned in like she hadn’t heard correctly. “Say that one more time. Slower.”

Hermione relented, “I think I like Draco.”

Ginny’s eyebrow raised, “So he’s Draco now? The same Draco who bullied you relentlessly. The _Death Eater_ Draco?”

Hermione put her head in her hands, “Jesus, I know. I know it sounds crazy. But… he’s just different now. He’s strangely… tender. He can be so snarky and yet so kind. He’s not afraid to speak his mind in front of me. I only realized I liked him last night when he was reading to me—”

“Hold up! He _read_ to you?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Hermione. “Can you let me finish?”

“Sorry, that’s just kind of hot,” mumbled Ginny.

“As I was saying,” continued Hermione, “that was when I knew. I think I had known for weeks, but I couldn’t admit it. Then the floodgates opened—I haven’t gotten any sleep because of it!”

“Wow. You have got it bad!” Ginny laughed. “But what about Ron?”

“Well, you know. We decided that we’d take a break, see what happened when he went to the ministry and I came here. But I guess I never thought that something would _happen_. And I especially didn’t think I’d get the wind knocked out of me like this,” Hermione explained.

“But you feel strongly towards Malfoy… more than you ever did with Ron,” Ginny clarified, and Hermione nodded her head in the affirmative.

Ginny sat there in silence for a moment, and Hermione braced herself for a lecture. Ginny finally said, “So there’s your answer.”

Hermione quickly turned her head to look at Ginny, “What?”

“You can’t help how you feel,” she answered. She grabbed Hermione’s hand again for emphasis, “You said yourself that he’s changed. You’re the brightest witch of your age; I think you can trust your instincts!”

Hermione felt immense relief, “So you’re not mad about Ron?”

“Fuck no!” exclaimed Ginny. “You were too good for him anyway.”

Hermione then had the realization: even though Ginny was cool with it—what was she going to do about Draco! She now had to live with him—she didn’t think she could handle it.

“I came here expecting you to rip me a new one,” laughed Hermione. “What the hell do I do now?”

Ginny laughed along and said, “You think he feels the same?”

Hermione’s brows furrowed as she thought about the past few months, “He does always seem to have the look of a deer in headlights when he’s around me. I always wrote it off as guilt.”

Ginny smiled evilly, “Oh honey, I know that look. This is going to be so simple…”

\--

Hermione paced outside of their room. Trying to relax, she reviewed what Ginny said: _act natural, be confident, go for it_. She knew that it wasn’t a big deal… she thought that maybe he liked her, they had chemistry. And if he didn’t… well, he would probably laugh in her face, hold it against her forever. _She couldn’t do this_. Maybe she could just hunker down in the library, try to avoid him at all costs. Reluctantly walking from the dorm, flashes of their conversations came to her mind—his genuine laugh, his angry huffs, his soft touch on her face—and she stilled again.

No.

She needed to stop running. War had given her a cynicism she didn’t have before—but it also made her understand that life was short. The mind games and avoidances were never going to make her happy. But really trying, making a connection with another person with no strings attached, was something she couldn’t run from. True living, true excitement, came from putting yourself out on the line. Hermione knew that even if he rejected her, the heartbreak would be better than floating around life—not daring to pursue what she really wanted—in a state of numbness. With a surge of courage, she opened to the door.

\--

Draco was in his room, lying on his bed reading _The Secret History_. He picked it up second hand over the summer, but figured he wouldn’t bring it up to Hermione, as it would likely give her a heart attack since it was written by a muggle.

He heard her come through the door and go into her room. Sighing, he threw the book to the side and rubbed his temples. She had been acting so strangely. Still coming down from the high of selfishly thinking it had something to do with him, he glanced around his dreary room. Rain pattering at the window, the cloudiness made it darker than usual. Lonelier. Yet another reminder than his childhood preference to cronies as opposed to real friends was an incredibly poor life choice. As if on cue, a knock on the door reminded him of the other presence in his living space. _Not completely alone_.

Smoothing out his pajamas—it was Saturday, after all—he called out to her, “One minute!” He did a once over in the mirror. Seeing that his hair and his navy pajamas were as perfect as they could be, he walked over and opened the door.

Draco tried not to do a once over of Hermione and failed miserably. She was wearing only a thin robe, and he couldn’t stop his mind from imagining what lay just underneath. Moving his eyes quickly back up to her face, he noticed a more relaxed face from that morning and a light application of makeup. Jealousy surged through him— _who was she seeing looking like that?_

“Can I come in?” she asked demurely.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly—too quickly.

She brushed passed him and he tried to remember how to breathe. As she observed his room, he took his chance to take in her scant appearance. Overcompensating for the blood rushing south, he took his opportunity to sate his curiosity by asking “What’s the occasion?”

“For what?” she asked.

He gestured at her vaguely, “The outfit. The surprise visit.”

“Oh,” she smiled knowingly, “just trying something new.”

Feeling unsatisfied with that answer, Draco frowned _. What was she not telling him?_

Hermione asked him, “What’s your occasion?”

“Huh?” his brow furrowed.

She gestured vaguely back at him and teased, “Going to a pajama party with some second years?”

“Wha— _oh_. Haha. Very funny Granger,” he deadpanned. His grouchy attitude seemed to fuel her and she cracked a hard laugh. The sound made him smile.

“So…” Draco continued, “you’re feeling better?”

“Huh?” Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“The uh… ‘something you ate,’ as you put it.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, eyes widening in understanding. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine now. Better than fine, really.”

“Is that so…” said Draco tightly. He observed her appearance again and ran through the list in his head of other guys that could be making her feel so _wonderful_.

“Uhm… What did you think of Joyce?” Hermione asked as she sat on the bed. _His_ bed.

Intently looking directly into her eyes and trying not to glance down at the exposed thigh escaping her robe, Draco replied, “I thought it was very well written. I needed to read each chapter at least twice to really _get_ it, but I thought he captured the disillusionment and grime of city life quite well.”

“Yeah,” agreed Hermione. “Even though each story exposes the grimmest facets of human nature, each were so well written I hated to admit how giddy it made me.”

Draco laughed, “Me too! I always feel like such a sick fuck, but I think he would have loved that.”

After a beat, Hermione smiled. She said, “But I didn’t come in here to talk about Joyce, did I?”

Draco stilled, “What do you mean? Why _are_ you here?”

“You really don’t know?”

Draco shook his head. Hermione shook her head and laughed, “For fuck’s sake, Draco!”

Hermione jumped off the bed, grabbed both sides of his face, and kissed him. Draco was paralyzed. His brain was working double time trying to figure out what the _fuck_ was happening, but before he could kiss her back, she pulled away.

Her cheeks were red as he studied her in shock. Breaking the silence, she said, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I think I may have gotten the wrong idea. I’ll just…. let’s forget about this, okay?”

She moved towards the door, but he stilled her by asking, “What about Weasley?”

“He’s not in the picture,” she winced in embarrassment, “please, just forget it, alright?”

Hermione grasped one hand on the doorknob and began to turn it, but his instincts roared to life and he grabbed her wrist.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

As she sighed in relief, he pulled her towards him and their lips met again. Making up for the previous mishap, Draco kissed her with fervor. He broke the kiss and started to kiss down her neck, and her sighs sunk straight down into his groin. Nudging her thighs apart, Draco stepped in between to press their cores flush together. The added friction necessitated Draco to pull his mouth off her neck and sigh in relief.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured, and she moaned in response.

“I’ve only just thought of this,” Hermione sighed, “but let’s compare notes later, yeah?”

He stopped kissing her for a moment to lead them to the bed. Hermione blushed as she undid the tie on her robe under Draco’s watchful eye. Revealing a white bra and matching underwear, Draco felt painfully hard.

“I cant believe you’re real,” he said in astonishment as he guided her onto the bed and climbed on top of her.

Putting his fingers at her center, he could already feel the wetness meet his fingers and the blush on her face traveled to her chest. Draco dipped his hand underneath and rubbed her sensitive nub. Slowly, her breathy sighs turned into moans, and he dipped a finger inside. She gasped at the feeling of the cold metal ring at her center. “Draco, I want to feel you—all of you.”

He didn’t think he had ever been more aroused in his life, and he frantically kicked off his pants and boxers as she took off her bra.

When he was back in the same position as before, looking down at her swollen lips and mussed hair, affection swept through him. “Hermione…” he started.

She smiled, “I know.”

When their bodies collided, they both sighed, finally feeling an acute sense of belonging—of a new beginning.

\--

In the aftermath, they laid in comfortable silence as Hermione stroked Draco’s chest, she asked him, “How long have you known?”

Draco replied, “Even though it wasn’t immediate, I’d say after you slapped me in third year. What about you?”

Hermione blushed, “Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?!” Draco shot up, “Boy, you are _very_ forward.”

“Shut up,” she smiled. “You must’ve known reading Joyce to me was a surefire way of winning my heart.”

He scoffed and relaxed back into her hold, “Not so much. If I had known, I would have done it a _lot_ sooner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm right under the wire of when the sopranos aired (january 1999) and this takes place in about december 1998, just go with it :) also, watch the sopranos


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